So, Katie experienced her first break-up with a friend. Well, not so much of a break-up as a continental drift...her friend drifted from their little Omega geek world into the bigger world of complex social strata and is aiming for being a part of the popular group. And really, who can blame her. In the world of a thirteen year old, it's hard to hear you're hanging with the loser crowd. Katie and her other friends have shrugged and wished her well, though they are somewhat dismayed to find their numbers down by one. Their group doesn't know - at least not yet - how to play the right games to blend in with the larger herd. They don't care for fake affections or pretended interests. For now, they say they prefer it that way, and hopefully they really do...still...peer pressure is a fearsome thing at this age, especially when there are members of the opposite sex involved.
It seems fitting that I would have heard this story while I had a group of girls at the roller skating rink. Almost poetic justice in that, as another roller rink, in a distant galaxy, far far away...was the scene of so many of my own moments of peer pressure buckling. See, I was a child of the 1980's, and Friday night meant hanging out at the roller rink. It was awesome - I had the the classic white skate boots with the big pink pom poms on them - all the right footwear to go with my parachute pants, my feathered hair, and my off-one-shoulder tops. Height of tacky, and I looked just like everyone else. The Duran Duran hat came a little bit later, with the acid washed jeans and the asymetrical punk haircut....
Friday night at the roller rink meant a little bit of skating and a whole lot of posturing, flirting and sometimes making out. The rink where I take my girls is so much the same, and yet so different. Same carpeted benches and open lockers, but a lot better lighting and a lot more adults looking out on the action. So, maybe it's a good thing - the rink I frequented as an adolescent had no doors on the bathroom stalls to cut down on sex and drug use. Eek. Not a memory I want anywhere close to my own girls....but anyway...I did neither of those two things while I was at the rink, and didn't know anyone personally who did. Maybe it was just one of those urban legends. But the smell of the rink - slight sweat, greasy pizza, popcorn, and some undefinable smell that is only found in those old rinks - it was the same. It took me back to being thirteen years old and trying to figure out where I fit into the social structure as well.
My biggest peer pressure moment could be summed up with two words - Brian Dantona. Brian looked like Michael J. Fox (and that was a big deal in the early 80's), and he danced like Michael Jackson. OK, so he was kind of on the short side...who cared...he was Brian Dantona. Even his name was awesome. There are kids like him that we all know growing up - legends in their own time, for no reason other than that they possess that undefinable quality of "cool" that has all the girls wanting them and all the boys wanting to be them. Brian didn't go to my school - heck, not sure really how old he was or if he went to school. Didn't matter - he was Brian Freaking Dantona. Brian didn't have girlfriends for periods of days or weeks. He had Friday night girls, and he had his own spot on the mushroom shaped benches in the darkest corner of the rink. On any given Friday night, you could see a random girl sitting next to him - or on his lap, if she was lucky enough to be shorter than him - making out. Never mattered which girl, because we all pretty much looked alike. It was a girls' rite of passage to make-out with Brian Dantona. I'd made it through 7th grade and most of the summer before 8th without being one of Brian's Friday night girls. That summer I had a major crush on another guy, Andy - not so much of a legend, but still a pretty great guy. He raced dirt bikes, and he'd almost gotten up the nerve to kiss me one Saturday in a friend's treehouse. So, the next Friday night I dressed with extra care - plastering my feathered layers into place, putting on the palest glittery lip gloss, wearing my very coolest new shirt and the tightest jeans I owned - the ones I had to lay down to zip and pray I wouldn't need to pee. I figured I wouldn't even bother with skates until I was sure Andy was coming. In the way that things always seem to go when you are a teenager, that was the night I got the message from one of the other boys that Brian "oh My God" Dantona wanted me to come sit with him.
Now, I knew I'd been waiting for over a year for my turn. Not because I really wanted to make-out with Brian Dantona, but because I didn't want to be the girl he never asked. But in that moment, I was wavering, because I really just wanted to hang out by the snack bar and see if Andy would show up and maybe ask me to couples skate again. But my friends were all waiting, and Julie gave me a little push forward and asked, "what are you WAITING for?" in a pretty shrill voice. I'd like to say that I used all my common sense (because thirteen year old girls are known for that), and said "no." But I didn't. All these girls were looking at me expectantly, wondering what my problem was, and the speakers were pounding out REO Speedwagon, and I just sort of fog-walked over to the darkest corner and sat down with Brian Dantona. I spent the next two hours as Brian's Friday night girl, pretty much bored out of my mind, until the moment I opened my eyes and looked past Brian's blow-dryed perfection hair and saw Andy couples skating with Lynn. I tried to throw myself back into my legendary make-out moment, but my heart wasn't in it and quite frankly, my lips had gone numb by that time.
My friends all congratulated me as we waited in the parking lot for our rides, Brian having walked away at closing time, without so much as ever having said anything beyond "Hi" and "Thanks, see ya'." Andy walked to the other end of the parking lot to wait for his car. He never did speak to me again. I had a choice between a really great guy, or doing what was expected by my friends. I went with what was expected of me, because it was easier to privately hurt about Andy than to explain why on earth I wouldn't make-out with the guy that all the girls wanted.
I had forgotten all about those Friday nights and Brian Dantona until I was sitting in the rink watching my girls go round and round under the disco lights, and was thinking about what they had told me regarding friends and popularity. Who even really knows what it means to be popular or even to "belong," but we were all so afraid of not having that indefinable quality, we were willing to risk a part of who we were. Most of the time I'm so proud of my daughter and her friends for not caring what other people think and going down their own paths. Other times, I'm scared for them. It's hard to be the outcast - we moved around a lot when I was a kid, and I've walked both paths. I do try to help Katie find a balance - you can be yourself without being an out and out curiosity. I hope every single day that she'll make good choices. But if one day she has her own Brian Dantona moment, because just for one single Friday night she wants to be one of the girls...I'll understand, and I'll try to help her understand if her friends make that same kind of decision.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Family Blessings
I went to bed last night, still feeling emotionally raw from the ups and downs of this week. It was with great reluctance that I cooked and headed out to my parents' house today. See, my family is the original dysfunctional family on the best of days. Holidays have never been the best of those days. While other people have memories of cooking and laughing together, watching football, maybe getting out the Christmas tree, my Thanksgiving memories involve a lot of cussing in the kitchen, yelling, tense silence around the dinner table, and criticism. Those are the good holiday memories. Worse years include the year my mom threw a turkey through the window (well, that was the time at Thanksgiving...she threw one out at Christmas once, but it was on fire that time, so it almost made sense), or the time my dad stabbed a knife into the table top, right next to my brother's hand, or the year I walked out in a snow storm and just kept walking...you get the point. I've contributed too, like the year my mother accidentally on purpose forgot that I don't eat meat and included it in EVERY SINGLE dish, including the salad - that took talent and planning. So, when asked to say the blessing, I eulogized the turkey - then suggested we should proceed to the backyard for a graveside service. It was in poor taste, but they tend to bring out the worst in me.
I remember the first year I had a family celebration with John's family. It felt so weird - no one was fighting, they had all these little traditions and inside jokes. It was like the holidays I had only seen in sit-coms. I miss those family gatherings.
So, this morning I woke up, still feeling emotionally wrung out and wishing I had indulged in some wine last night, while I had a chance. The thought of going to my parents' for a holiday, without my full emotional armor in place almost scared me. I gave thought to taking some anxiety medication, but decided I'd rather have full use of my sensibilities, just in case I had to make a run for it.
It was an absolutely predictable evening. My dad called my mother an idiot. My mom cussed and threw things around in the kitchen. My kids acted up, because they know they can get away with it there. I pretended to read a book in order to avoid confrontations as much as possible. My dad gave the girls money for no clear reason, because he doesn't know what else to do with them. My mother cooked way too much food, and refused to eat a single thing that she had asked me to bring - my potatoes are weird, "who eats asparagus?" and the salad wasn't like she makes. OK...bring on the left-overs for us.
It was predictable. Except, I realized that I maybe don't need any armor anymore, except my sense of humor. This is my family - it's the only one I have, and they're not going to change any more than I am. The fact is that, strange as our relationships are, I will miss them when they are gone. I am thankful that I have them, though I sometimes have to keep them at a distance. My parents are getting older, and my brother lives 1200 miles away. The time I get with them is less and less frequent, and while we may not have perfect relationships, they are my family. I will create a new mantra to remind myself of this when we are together and they are driving me crazy.
I am thankful for my crazy, mixed up, emotionally goofy family.
And while I'm on the subject....
I am thankful for my children, and for the chance to learn from the family in which I grew up, so that I will not repeat the same mistakes. I'm breaking new ground and making all new mistakes of my own. And I do own them, admit them, and hope that my children can forgive them. I love my children - they are unique and quirky, and sometimes make me want to scream in frustration - and they are forever mine. I happen to think that they are particularly wonderful.
I am thankful for John. We rarely see one another, and are sometimes so frustrated when we finally do end up in a room together that one of us ends up mad at the other. But we have been together since before I was legal, and I am lucky to have this person in my life who accepts me - the one person who does so knowing exactly who I am and liking me anyway. We are partners in raising our children, and in every way that counts.
I am thankful for my friends - the ones I see often, and the ones I may never see in person again. Every one of them has touched my life in myriad ways and I think about all of them often in my life. My friends forgive a lot with me, and they remind me to keep my feet on the ground and my head out of the clouds when I need it. They turn a blind eye when I act a little crazy, and they pretend not to notice how off key I am when I sing. Bless each and every one of them.
I am thankful to have a job I enjoy, challenges and all. I love my co-workers, and love the fact that I do something that makes a difference to people. We are our own dysfunctional family of a different sort.
I am thankful for having found a church home where I can contribute and be accepted as well. Having bounced from Baptist upbringing to Catholic school to Quaker meetings and marrying into a very Catholic family....it's been a long journey. Balance is a good thing, and I've found it in our church. It is a place where I can worship, question, celebrate, serve and watch my children grow in love.
I am thankful that we have a home - it's small, and its messy, and there are a million things needing some TLC...but it's our home. My children have grown here, and a million memories of every kind have been made inside these walls.
I am thankful that my family is in good health. This is high on my list this year, having watched loved ones let go of family, mothers agonize over their sick children, and children mourning their parents in recent days. Our days on this earth are short enough, and I am blessed to know that my family is well and able to take care of ourselves.
I am thankful for our own personal zoo...the cats, the mice, the hedgehog and frogs, the hamster and all the rest.
I am thankful for the opportunity to start over every single day. I screw up - a lot. But I know that it's because I am human and that it's just my humanity showing when I do so. I am thankful that with age I have learned to pick myself up a little more quickly and start over again. I am thankful that I am not done learning, because the day that that happens, I will have stopped living. Sometimes the lessons are painful, and some of them are almost beyond bearing, and yet I keep moving forward. I am thankful that we have a God who designed us this way, and who promises to never give us more than we can bear, despite how it feels some days.
I am thankful for my own ability to love. It's what saves me some days (not to mention the fact that it saves others on other days).
I am thankful...just simply, thankful, and feeling blessed.
I remember the first year I had a family celebration with John's family. It felt so weird - no one was fighting, they had all these little traditions and inside jokes. It was like the holidays I had only seen in sit-coms. I miss those family gatherings.
So, this morning I woke up, still feeling emotionally wrung out and wishing I had indulged in some wine last night, while I had a chance. The thought of going to my parents' for a holiday, without my full emotional armor in place almost scared me. I gave thought to taking some anxiety medication, but decided I'd rather have full use of my sensibilities, just in case I had to make a run for it.
It was an absolutely predictable evening. My dad called my mother an idiot. My mom cussed and threw things around in the kitchen. My kids acted up, because they know they can get away with it there. I pretended to read a book in order to avoid confrontations as much as possible. My dad gave the girls money for no clear reason, because he doesn't know what else to do with them. My mother cooked way too much food, and refused to eat a single thing that she had asked me to bring - my potatoes are weird, "who eats asparagus?" and the salad wasn't like she makes. OK...bring on the left-overs for us.
It was predictable. Except, I realized that I maybe don't need any armor anymore, except my sense of humor. This is my family - it's the only one I have, and they're not going to change any more than I am. The fact is that, strange as our relationships are, I will miss them when they are gone. I am thankful that I have them, though I sometimes have to keep them at a distance. My parents are getting older, and my brother lives 1200 miles away. The time I get with them is less and less frequent, and while we may not have perfect relationships, they are my family. I will create a new mantra to remind myself of this when we are together and they are driving me crazy.
I am thankful for my crazy, mixed up, emotionally goofy family.
And while I'm on the subject....
I am thankful for my children, and for the chance to learn from the family in which I grew up, so that I will not repeat the same mistakes. I'm breaking new ground and making all new mistakes of my own. And I do own them, admit them, and hope that my children can forgive them. I love my children - they are unique and quirky, and sometimes make me want to scream in frustration - and they are forever mine. I happen to think that they are particularly wonderful.
I am thankful for John. We rarely see one another, and are sometimes so frustrated when we finally do end up in a room together that one of us ends up mad at the other. But we have been together since before I was legal, and I am lucky to have this person in my life who accepts me - the one person who does so knowing exactly who I am and liking me anyway. We are partners in raising our children, and in every way that counts.
I am thankful for my friends - the ones I see often, and the ones I may never see in person again. Every one of them has touched my life in myriad ways and I think about all of them often in my life. My friends forgive a lot with me, and they remind me to keep my feet on the ground and my head out of the clouds when I need it. They turn a blind eye when I act a little crazy, and they pretend not to notice how off key I am when I sing. Bless each and every one of them.
I am thankful to have a job I enjoy, challenges and all. I love my co-workers, and love the fact that I do something that makes a difference to people. We are our own dysfunctional family of a different sort.
I am thankful for having found a church home where I can contribute and be accepted as well. Having bounced from Baptist upbringing to Catholic school to Quaker meetings and marrying into a very Catholic family....it's been a long journey. Balance is a good thing, and I've found it in our church. It is a place where I can worship, question, celebrate, serve and watch my children grow in love.
I am thankful that we have a home - it's small, and its messy, and there are a million things needing some TLC...but it's our home. My children have grown here, and a million memories of every kind have been made inside these walls.
I am thankful that my family is in good health. This is high on my list this year, having watched loved ones let go of family, mothers agonize over their sick children, and children mourning their parents in recent days. Our days on this earth are short enough, and I am blessed to know that my family is well and able to take care of ourselves.
I am thankful for our own personal zoo...the cats, the mice, the hedgehog and frogs, the hamster and all the rest.
I am thankful for the opportunity to start over every single day. I screw up - a lot. But I know that it's because I am human and that it's just my humanity showing when I do so. I am thankful that with age I have learned to pick myself up a little more quickly and start over again. I am thankful that I am not done learning, because the day that that happens, I will have stopped living. Sometimes the lessons are painful, and some of them are almost beyond bearing, and yet I keep moving forward. I am thankful that we have a God who designed us this way, and who promises to never give us more than we can bear, despite how it feels some days.
I am thankful for my own ability to love. It's what saves me some days (not to mention the fact that it saves others on other days).
I am thankful...just simply, thankful, and feeling blessed.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Thankful?
Just when it seems like it should be one of the days for most counting my blessings, I'm finding it the hardest to be thankful. This has been a week so full of hurt - not as much for me, but for many who I love and care about. Sometimes the absolute raw, bitter hurt that is part of the human experience knocks my feet right out from underneath of me, and I can't understand why. Just when I know, deep down inside, that I should most be leaning on faith, I find it the most difficult to believe in the mercy of God at all. Today is one of those days, as I sit here, almost raw with empathy for loved ones, and absolute fury for a world where people could be hurt so badly.
In complete irony, I have a song running through my head that Erin Elizabeth used to sing with her choir - "Thankful." And, yes, I am thankful today that my family is safe, that my intimate world moves on as before - my 12 year old is whining, my mother is acting pre-holiday crazy, my house is messy and my cats are running amok. But it seems all the more strange to be thankful for these ordinary days in my own life, when so many other things are wrong.
It reminds me of when a friend died, back when I was still in high school. He'd had a long, drawn-out, battle with lymphoma that had eventually left him thankful to let go of the pain. Another friend and I went to one of his favorite spots, up on a mountain, as our own way of saying good-bye. I remember being so very angry that children were still playing in the park, and that dragonflies were still buzzing by, and the whole world was still moving on. It felt as though life should have stopped, suspended, for a moment, just out of respect. But it didn't. In a surreal way, the colors were more bright, the smells stronger, and my thoughts louder the whole way up that mountain trail. I stood on the edge of a cliff, looking out, from a vantage spot that had scared me in the past, and I was no longer afraid of those heights. Or, well, I wasn't on that particular day. My fear of heights was no longer the scariest thing for me, because for the first time ever, death was real to me. It wasn't just for the old, or those I didn't know. Death could touch the young, rob futures, and invade any and every moment in our lives. It wasn't just closure at the end of a long life, and it was most definitely forever. Standing on the top of that mountain, I understood the finality for the very first time.
Over and over in my life, I have relearned this lesson. I've tried to minimize the pain for my children, knowing that their moments on the mountain will come some day as well. But my anger never does fade in moments like I've had in the last couple of days. We're granted such incredibly short lives, and yet we make such incredibly bad decisions all the time, in our own human fallible ways. If I could only keep that knowledge front and center in my brain, maybe I'd make better decisions of my own sometimes. Maybe.
But right now I am marveling at how I can both feel gratitude and love and still be so absolutely angry with a God who is allowing so much hurt to happen, and so many lives to be shaken. In one single moment, any of us might make a decision that ends lives, tears apart families, hurts children, scars friends and loved ones, or turns us further from the light of God's love. And He allows all of that to happen. I've always truly believed that free will was one of God's greatest gifts to us, but what about that unknown factor, that moment when free will isn't the guiding force anymore, and we are adrift. Years of Catholic schooling whisper to me that it is a test of faith, and I am failing....and it just makes me all the more angry. In moments like this, I want to know, with absolute certainty, that He is hurting with me - every single step of the way - because it's just NOT FAIR.
I suppose I should be thankful now, that our God is not the vengeful one of Abraham, for surely I would have been struck down by now, in all my temper tantrum glory. And so this year, as I count my other blessings, slowly and painfully, I will stop to be thankful that our God is one who will forgive that I am angry and doubting right now, and will wait patiently for me to learn whatever terrible lesson it is that is expected in this moment. For, I know that it is not all about me and mine, but is the way of human life. The rhythm of our world continues whether I am thankful for it or not, just as it did on a mountaintop twenty some years ago, and for all my weaknesses, doubts, and angry, I am thankful for the hope that I'll find my place in the rhythm again.
In complete irony, I have a song running through my head that Erin Elizabeth used to sing with her choir - "Thankful." And, yes, I am thankful today that my family is safe, that my intimate world moves on as before - my 12 year old is whining, my mother is acting pre-holiday crazy, my house is messy and my cats are running amok. But it seems all the more strange to be thankful for these ordinary days in my own life, when so many other things are wrong.
It reminds me of when a friend died, back when I was still in high school. He'd had a long, drawn-out, battle with lymphoma that had eventually left him thankful to let go of the pain. Another friend and I went to one of his favorite spots, up on a mountain, as our own way of saying good-bye. I remember being so very angry that children were still playing in the park, and that dragonflies were still buzzing by, and the whole world was still moving on. It felt as though life should have stopped, suspended, for a moment, just out of respect. But it didn't. In a surreal way, the colors were more bright, the smells stronger, and my thoughts louder the whole way up that mountain trail. I stood on the edge of a cliff, looking out, from a vantage spot that had scared me in the past, and I was no longer afraid of those heights. Or, well, I wasn't on that particular day. My fear of heights was no longer the scariest thing for me, because for the first time ever, death was real to me. It wasn't just for the old, or those I didn't know. Death could touch the young, rob futures, and invade any and every moment in our lives. It wasn't just closure at the end of a long life, and it was most definitely forever. Standing on the top of that mountain, I understood the finality for the very first time.
Over and over in my life, I have relearned this lesson. I've tried to minimize the pain for my children, knowing that their moments on the mountain will come some day as well. But my anger never does fade in moments like I've had in the last couple of days. We're granted such incredibly short lives, and yet we make such incredibly bad decisions all the time, in our own human fallible ways. If I could only keep that knowledge front and center in my brain, maybe I'd make better decisions of my own sometimes. Maybe.
But right now I am marveling at how I can both feel gratitude and love and still be so absolutely angry with a God who is allowing so much hurt to happen, and so many lives to be shaken. In one single moment, any of us might make a decision that ends lives, tears apart families, hurts children, scars friends and loved ones, or turns us further from the light of God's love. And He allows all of that to happen. I've always truly believed that free will was one of God's greatest gifts to us, but what about that unknown factor, that moment when free will isn't the guiding force anymore, and we are adrift. Years of Catholic schooling whisper to me that it is a test of faith, and I am failing....and it just makes me all the more angry. In moments like this, I want to know, with absolute certainty, that He is hurting with me - every single step of the way - because it's just NOT FAIR.
I suppose I should be thankful now, that our God is not the vengeful one of Abraham, for surely I would have been struck down by now, in all my temper tantrum glory. And so this year, as I count my other blessings, slowly and painfully, I will stop to be thankful that our God is one who will forgive that I am angry and doubting right now, and will wait patiently for me to learn whatever terrible lesson it is that is expected in this moment. For, I know that it is not all about me and mine, but is the way of human life. The rhythm of our world continues whether I am thankful for it or not, just as it did on a mountaintop twenty some years ago, and for all my weaknesses, doubts, and angry, I am thankful for the hope that I'll find my place in the rhythm again.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Hitting the Wall
The kids and I have been living life at break-neck speed these last few weeks, or maybe it's months...it's all been a blur, to be honest. I should have known that speed was dangerous and we were bound to hit the wall eventually. We sure did tonight, in a big way. Or at least Katie hit the wall. See, she was gone all week on a class trip, immediately leaped into dance class, went back to school, partied all night, and got up early for a soccer tournament this morning.
As her mom, I have every sympathy for the pace of her week. But also as her mom, I need to know she is prepared for the week ahead, so that meant laying out expectations and meaning it when I said what the consequences would be for not meeting those expectations. Well, she napped instead of doing chores or school work, and I completely understand that. So, why do I feel so mean for telling her that she needs to spend tomorrow doing all the things she didn't complete today? I feel, absolutely, like an ogre, because she'll miss girl scouts, and EYC, and all the things she's been looking forward to doing. Or at least I felt bad until she slammed her bedroom door in my face....
That's when I hit my own personal wall. Out came the hammer, out came the screw driver, and I started to remove her bedroom door. Seriously, I was taking the door off the hinges. I've done it before, but I had to stop this time and step back and get a grip on reality.
We're all tired. None of us feel that great. I've worked through solid since last spring break, and I badly need a week off. It's the three of us day in and day out, as their dad is rarely around. We're getting on each other's nerves at this point.
Thanksgiving is coming and I think we have a whole new something to be thankful for this year - a chance to catch our breath collectively. We're all racing like mad little hamsters upon our wheels and at some point, somewhere, this has got to stop.
So, my job as a mom is to prepare my kids for the life ahead of them, once I'm no longer there to wield the heavy hammer. Which kind of prepared is the better prepared? I mean, I think that they live ridiculously busy lives, and they shouldn't be doing all the things they are doing. They're kids, and they should be kids. Heck, I don't think I should be doing all the stuff that I am doing. But this is the culture in which we live, unless I'm willing to throw it all away and go live on a tropical island somewhere and raise goats and eat coconuts (and I don't like coconuts all that much, and goats stink), then I've got to have them ready to live the lives ahead of them. That means finding a balance between not doing too much, and learning how to handle living in what amounts to carefully balanced chaos on some days.
Let's get a grip here - my kids are 10 and 12 years old. They're not supposed to know how to handle this much pressure, are they? I read an article a few days ago that said that the median age for girls to give up dolls when I was growing up was 11. Now, it is 6. Six year olds are too old to play with dolls? They're marketing dolls for "older" girls now, the Moxie Teen dolls and the like, in the hopes of keeping girls interested until they are 8. Wow. Katie is 12. She does not have one single toy in her room (I won't count all the stuffed penguins, those are different - they're companions, collections and obsessions, not really toys). She hasn't had a toy in her bedroom since she was younger than Erin Elizabeth is now. My younger daughter doesn't give a darn what anyone thinks - she still has tons of toys and plays with them without shame. Katie sometimes sneaks in there and plays too - she needs a break from worrying about taking the SAT, what heels to wear to a party, and how she can earn money for a trip to Costa Rica. She needs a break.
We all need a break. We need to play more, and worry less. We need to not schedule things, to not plan things, and not care about world issues for just one week. Not only do my children need to be children - even if it's only for a few days - I'd like to be a kid myself. I want to play with my kids this week, and not fuss at them. I want to listen to what they have to say, not worry about how I'm going to manage to get them to the ten million appointments and classes we've scheduled.
I'm teaching my kids to cope with the world in which we live, but I think Erin Elizabeth might be the smartest one of all, as she is more concerned about changing things that don't fit her vision of what the world ought to be. She's the one who will, maybe, make it a better world for all of us. Well, that is if I don't do my "job" too well, and spend too much time teaching her to cope and meet deadlines.
A friend told me this week that I need to learn to relax. She's right. I need to learn to let go, and give up some control. But again, there's a balance, because I can't lose my job or let my kids fail out of school while we learn to let our hair down.
In the meantime, in the words of millions of women who have gone before me - "Calgon, take me away." I sent Katie to bed - tomorrow won't be what she wanted it to be, but she can at least get some rest tonight before she tackles her tasks again. Me, I'm climbing into a hot bath, with a glass of wine, and the dishes can just stay dirty for tonight.
I've hit the wall in a big way, but there's no reason to let it hit me back.
As her mom, I have every sympathy for the pace of her week. But also as her mom, I need to know she is prepared for the week ahead, so that meant laying out expectations and meaning it when I said what the consequences would be for not meeting those expectations. Well, she napped instead of doing chores or school work, and I completely understand that. So, why do I feel so mean for telling her that she needs to spend tomorrow doing all the things she didn't complete today? I feel, absolutely, like an ogre, because she'll miss girl scouts, and EYC, and all the things she's been looking forward to doing. Or at least I felt bad until she slammed her bedroom door in my face....
That's when I hit my own personal wall. Out came the hammer, out came the screw driver, and I started to remove her bedroom door. Seriously, I was taking the door off the hinges. I've done it before, but I had to stop this time and step back and get a grip on reality.
We're all tired. None of us feel that great. I've worked through solid since last spring break, and I badly need a week off. It's the three of us day in and day out, as their dad is rarely around. We're getting on each other's nerves at this point.
Thanksgiving is coming and I think we have a whole new something to be thankful for this year - a chance to catch our breath collectively. We're all racing like mad little hamsters upon our wheels and at some point, somewhere, this has got to stop.
So, my job as a mom is to prepare my kids for the life ahead of them, once I'm no longer there to wield the heavy hammer. Which kind of prepared is the better prepared? I mean, I think that they live ridiculously busy lives, and they shouldn't be doing all the things they are doing. They're kids, and they should be kids. Heck, I don't think I should be doing all the stuff that I am doing. But this is the culture in which we live, unless I'm willing to throw it all away and go live on a tropical island somewhere and raise goats and eat coconuts (and I don't like coconuts all that much, and goats stink), then I've got to have them ready to live the lives ahead of them. That means finding a balance between not doing too much, and learning how to handle living in what amounts to carefully balanced chaos on some days.
Let's get a grip here - my kids are 10 and 12 years old. They're not supposed to know how to handle this much pressure, are they? I read an article a few days ago that said that the median age for girls to give up dolls when I was growing up was 11. Now, it is 6. Six year olds are too old to play with dolls? They're marketing dolls for "older" girls now, the Moxie Teen dolls and the like, in the hopes of keeping girls interested until they are 8. Wow. Katie is 12. She does not have one single toy in her room (I won't count all the stuffed penguins, those are different - they're companions, collections and obsessions, not really toys). She hasn't had a toy in her bedroom since she was younger than Erin Elizabeth is now. My younger daughter doesn't give a darn what anyone thinks - she still has tons of toys and plays with them without shame. Katie sometimes sneaks in there and plays too - she needs a break from worrying about taking the SAT, what heels to wear to a party, and how she can earn money for a trip to Costa Rica. She needs a break.
We all need a break. We need to play more, and worry less. We need to not schedule things, to not plan things, and not care about world issues for just one week. Not only do my children need to be children - even if it's only for a few days - I'd like to be a kid myself. I want to play with my kids this week, and not fuss at them. I want to listen to what they have to say, not worry about how I'm going to manage to get them to the ten million appointments and classes we've scheduled.
I'm teaching my kids to cope with the world in which we live, but I think Erin Elizabeth might be the smartest one of all, as she is more concerned about changing things that don't fit her vision of what the world ought to be. She's the one who will, maybe, make it a better world for all of us. Well, that is if I don't do my "job" too well, and spend too much time teaching her to cope and meet deadlines.
A friend told me this week that I need to learn to relax. She's right. I need to learn to let go, and give up some control. But again, there's a balance, because I can't lose my job or let my kids fail out of school while we learn to let our hair down.
In the meantime, in the words of millions of women who have gone before me - "Calgon, take me away." I sent Katie to bed - tomorrow won't be what she wanted it to be, but she can at least get some rest tonight before she tackles her tasks again. Me, I'm climbing into a hot bath, with a glass of wine, and the dishes can just stay dirty for tonight.
I've hit the wall in a big way, but there's no reason to let it hit me back.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Here Be Chickens
I've never really been one for signs in my life. I mean, I don't believe in predestination, because I think we all make our own choices in life. But the chickens this week have been hard to overlook...I mean, chickens. I don't eat them, so they can't be out for revenge. And, yet, everywhere I look, it's been chickens these last few days.
I was thinking about it while I had one of those "I Love Lucy" moments in which I often find myself. See, I can dance with grace and elegance, but truly, I have no grace in daily life. I am as clumsy as clumsy can be. I can trip over a line drawn on the carpet. One of my good friends calls me "Grace," because I don't have any. And I get myself into situations - the keystone cop kind of situations. And yes, I can laugh about it, usually while I'm in the midst of one of these nearly impossible predicaments, making it even harder to recover some dignity. The latest loss of dignity involved pipe cleaners and a giant bean bag. I blame Carlo....it's his bean bag, and it attacked me. See, when I say giant bean bag, I mean big enough for fifteen middle school kids to sit on at one time - I know, we used it for photos at the last school dance. Somehow, "take it back to the Youth House for Carlo," sounded just like, "put it in my storage shed." So, when I run into the storage shed to get a package of pipe cleaners, I find that the targeted storage box is - of course - at the back of the shed, and on the bottom shelf. But the giant bean bag loomed between me and my goal. Undaunted, I shoved it up and to the side, and retrieved my pipe cleaners. In typical graceful fashion, I turned, lost my balance, fell, and landed on my back with the giant bean bag on top of me.
I laid there, listening to the sound of children playing on the playground behind me, and hoping that no one would come along and shut the door - imagine my kids' dismay when I didn't pick them up...no one would ever know what happened to me, unless they came looking for more art supplies. I was pushing ineffectively at the gelatinous blob, but kept giggling and just had to stop and rest for a moment. It was then the chickens came back to me. They'd been in the road that morning, a whole gaggle of them. Well, a flock, I guess, because geese run in gaggles. But I like the word gaggle better than flock, so I'm going to call them a gaggle of chickens....I don't live in the country, and I don't live near a poultry farm. Why there were chickens on Bingle Road during morning traffic, I'll never know. But there were chickens in the road.
This brought back to mind the portion of a bizarre dream from the night before when the pastor and associate pastor from my church were wrestling with a chicken in the sanctuary. Was that a premonition of chickens to come? Who knows, I was reminiscing and probably losing oxygen from being folded up under the enormous bean bag....
I finally managed to get my legs up and under and heaved myself out from under the bean bag of death. I probably looked a little strange, with my hair frizzed out in every direction, stomping back to my office, and breathing a little funny. Still, I had visions of chickens dancing in my brain.
So, I ran into a friend, who launched into a story about how her three year old was randomly screaming, "fight, chickens, fight" and I started to think there was more than mere coincidence at work here in the universe.
I mean, there has to be a reason why common threads come to gether and knit ugly wool scarves like the chicken stories. Ooh, OK, really failed metaphor. But I wonder if I'm wrong about fate? Maybe we have to rise up to meet it with grace. If that's so, I"m in trouble, because I REALLY don't have any grace of my own....but seriously, do I really get to make my own choices, or are all these seemingly random bits and pieces of my life really not so random at all. I might choose my friends, but I can't pick my chickens? I'd never try to count them before they hatched, because, well, that would just be weird.
No, no I'm pretty sure I can't get a concussion from something as soft as a bean bag.... but my thoughts have been racing today, and I wonder again how much of who I am is about the choices I have made - which is what I have always believed - and how much is who I was made to be. There once were two roads, and I chose the one less traveled, but there were chickens in the middle of it anyway....oh, dear....no matter which road I choose, am I destined to come back to the chickens? How much of our lives has to do with free will, which I have always belived was God's gift AND curse to us - the gift of choice? How much of my life has already been written and I just have to go along for the ride? If chickens are inevitable, then will it matter that I choose something else?
The answer, still, is that I refuse to believe that we are predestined to chickens or any other absurd realities. I've thought about it a lot today, and I certainly have had the time, you know, lying about under bean bags and such. I went and reassuringly opened my freezer. I have chick 'n - no chickens here. I choose to keep them alive and healthy somewhere else. Here there be eggs, but no chickens. We have cats, and frogs, and mice, and hamsters and hedgehogs - but no chickens. I still choose my own path, and if that path contains chicken, I'll bolster up my patience, and just walk on by. Or, maybe I'll lock them up with the giant bean bag and let them fight it out.
I have my own demons to fight on a daily basis - the chickens are on their own.
I was thinking about it while I had one of those "I Love Lucy" moments in which I often find myself. See, I can dance with grace and elegance, but truly, I have no grace in daily life. I am as clumsy as clumsy can be. I can trip over a line drawn on the carpet. One of my good friends calls me "Grace," because I don't have any. And I get myself into situations - the keystone cop kind of situations. And yes, I can laugh about it, usually while I'm in the midst of one of these nearly impossible predicaments, making it even harder to recover some dignity. The latest loss of dignity involved pipe cleaners and a giant bean bag. I blame Carlo....it's his bean bag, and it attacked me. See, when I say giant bean bag, I mean big enough for fifteen middle school kids to sit on at one time - I know, we used it for photos at the last school dance. Somehow, "take it back to the Youth House for Carlo," sounded just like, "put it in my storage shed." So, when I run into the storage shed to get a package of pipe cleaners, I find that the targeted storage box is - of course - at the back of the shed, and on the bottom shelf. But the giant bean bag loomed between me and my goal. Undaunted, I shoved it up and to the side, and retrieved my pipe cleaners. In typical graceful fashion, I turned, lost my balance, fell, and landed on my back with the giant bean bag on top of me.
I laid there, listening to the sound of children playing on the playground behind me, and hoping that no one would come along and shut the door - imagine my kids' dismay when I didn't pick them up...no one would ever know what happened to me, unless they came looking for more art supplies. I was pushing ineffectively at the gelatinous blob, but kept giggling and just had to stop and rest for a moment. It was then the chickens came back to me. They'd been in the road that morning, a whole gaggle of them. Well, a flock, I guess, because geese run in gaggles. But I like the word gaggle better than flock, so I'm going to call them a gaggle of chickens....I don't live in the country, and I don't live near a poultry farm. Why there were chickens on Bingle Road during morning traffic, I'll never know. But there were chickens in the road.
This brought back to mind the portion of a bizarre dream from the night before when the pastor and associate pastor from my church were wrestling with a chicken in the sanctuary. Was that a premonition of chickens to come? Who knows, I was reminiscing and probably losing oxygen from being folded up under the enormous bean bag....
I finally managed to get my legs up and under and heaved myself out from under the bean bag of death. I probably looked a little strange, with my hair frizzed out in every direction, stomping back to my office, and breathing a little funny. Still, I had visions of chickens dancing in my brain.
So, I ran into a friend, who launched into a story about how her three year old was randomly screaming, "fight, chickens, fight" and I started to think there was more than mere coincidence at work here in the universe.
I mean, there has to be a reason why common threads come to gether and knit ugly wool scarves like the chicken stories. Ooh, OK, really failed metaphor. But I wonder if I'm wrong about fate? Maybe we have to rise up to meet it with grace. If that's so, I"m in trouble, because I REALLY don't have any grace of my own....but seriously, do I really get to make my own choices, or are all these seemingly random bits and pieces of my life really not so random at all. I might choose my friends, but I can't pick my chickens? I'd never try to count them before they hatched, because, well, that would just be weird.
No, no I'm pretty sure I can't get a concussion from something as soft as a bean bag.... but my thoughts have been racing today, and I wonder again how much of who I am is about the choices I have made - which is what I have always believed - and how much is who I was made to be. There once were two roads, and I chose the one less traveled, but there were chickens in the middle of it anyway....oh, dear....no matter which road I choose, am I destined to come back to the chickens? How much of our lives has to do with free will, which I have always belived was God's gift AND curse to us - the gift of choice? How much of my life has already been written and I just have to go along for the ride? If chickens are inevitable, then will it matter that I choose something else?
The answer, still, is that I refuse to believe that we are predestined to chickens or any other absurd realities. I've thought about it a lot today, and I certainly have had the time, you know, lying about under bean bags and such. I went and reassuringly opened my freezer. I have chick 'n - no chickens here. I choose to keep them alive and healthy somewhere else. Here there be eggs, but no chickens. We have cats, and frogs, and mice, and hamsters and hedgehogs - but no chickens. I still choose my own path, and if that path contains chicken, I'll bolster up my patience, and just walk on by. Or, maybe I'll lock them up with the giant bean bag and let them fight it out.
I have my own demons to fight on a daily basis - the chickens are on their own.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Mating Rituals of the Serengeti and Other Observations
I was watching a nature show earlier this week, while drifting in and out of awareness, letting my extra strong cold medicine take me off into a drug induced nothingness. The truth is, I am addicted to useless facts. I mean, they're not useless for everyone, but pretty much useless to my daily life. In order to feed my useless fact craving, I often turn on Discovery Channel, History Channel, Biography Channel, etc. and listen while I'm doing other things. But I'm finding that while with a fever and taking multiple cold medications is not the time to listen for useless facts. It creates weird dreams, for one.
So, out on the savannah, the lion is king. No surprise there. Lions travel in prides - so called, I'll assume, after the prevailing characteristic of the male. Each pride is comprised of one or two males - they would be the Alpha and the Beta - and a whole lot of females. The male with the biggest muscles, coolest mane and loudest roar is the Alpha. All those Omegas roam on the periphery of the prides, and either live as bachelors, or they form their own lesser prides. They don't have access to a good trainer or a stylist, so they just have to make do with what they have.
So, I'm listening to all of this as I drift in and out of reality, but in my mind I'm picturing my daughter and her friends. This has been a year for social adjustments and a learning curve for my middle school girl. Listening to the mating habits of the lions could be describing the social circles I observe on a daily basis in my girl's school. It's still all about the hair and how loud they can roar. I picked Katie up from a dance party on Halloween, and I was sort of superimposing the lions' terms right over the mental images I had of those adolescents.
I mean, my kid is most definitely an Omega kind of lion. She's aware of it, and she doesn't strive to be anything else. Her friends are Omegas, and they've formed their own pride. It's all good, and I think some of them have pretty good hair - they've got reason to have some pride in their, um, pride. But I think every once in a while, she wonders what it would be like to be part of an Alpha group. She doesn't care enough to pursue the subjucation required of the lioness to join one of those prides, so she just stays with the Omegas. As she says, "we're weird, but you know, we're all the same kind of weird - it's good."
So, by this point, I had weird images in my brain of lions standing upright, wearing Halloween costumes, and dancing, or just trying to be cool Alphas...whatever the situation called for. I watched the Alpha male surrounded by his lionesses - they had staked out a distinct center advantage spot on the dance floor. Beta groups surrounded the big Alpha group. The Omegas had claimed the two corners. And there were "bachelor" males roaming the perimeter. I could almost smell the zebras downwind at this point.
We're so not different from the animals. We all have our own proving grounds, our own social strata, our own pecking order. Adult humans have the advantage that the animals don't have, that we can choose to abandon the social matrix and create our own - although some cling to this animalistic order into their 40's, but hey, it's a choice. It's a right of passage as adolescents, though, to learn to navigate the ins and outs of the grasslands. As long as my kid isn't taking down any hapless wildebeasts, it's all OK with me.
My friend Carlo has a theory that children are born not so different from animals. We "train" them to recognize dangers, to know right from wrong. We use conditioning, rituals, and occasional swats on the behind until they can make decisions on their own. It's a parent's job to help children overcome instinct and use reason instead. Hmmm...I thought he was crazy when he first brought this up. More and more, I'm seeing the transformation, and seeing that he might have had a point. I'm still not planning on putting out a giant kitty litter box for the girls, I mean they're human - no, really. Despite the sometimes unpleasant smells coming from Katie's gym bag, I'm pretty sure they're 100% homo sapien. They walk upright and everything. Then again, I don't have any boys of my own - maybe I would see more evidence of animal nature in that case. Carlo does, after all, have a boy of his own. A good kid, a sweet kid, but the need to spit, tell crude jokes, and spread his scent all crop up from time to time. It's part of the nature of the beast.
So, I wonder what kind of rituals are still ahead of us. I've seen posturing, circling, swoop and strike conversations, and outright ambushes (but those are usually the girls). Maybe I'll just get her some jungle red nail polish and let her battle it out in a primal away. In the mean time, I think I'll see if I've got any more of those good drugs - maybe it'll help me get through the next five or six years of primal social time.
So, out on the savannah, the lion is king. No surprise there. Lions travel in prides - so called, I'll assume, after the prevailing characteristic of the male. Each pride is comprised of one or two males - they would be the Alpha and the Beta - and a whole lot of females. The male with the biggest muscles, coolest mane and loudest roar is the Alpha. All those Omegas roam on the periphery of the prides, and either live as bachelors, or they form their own lesser prides. They don't have access to a good trainer or a stylist, so they just have to make do with what they have.
So, I'm listening to all of this as I drift in and out of reality, but in my mind I'm picturing my daughter and her friends. This has been a year for social adjustments and a learning curve for my middle school girl. Listening to the mating habits of the lions could be describing the social circles I observe on a daily basis in my girl's school. It's still all about the hair and how loud they can roar. I picked Katie up from a dance party on Halloween, and I was sort of superimposing the lions' terms right over the mental images I had of those adolescents.
I mean, my kid is most definitely an Omega kind of lion. She's aware of it, and she doesn't strive to be anything else. Her friends are Omegas, and they've formed their own pride. It's all good, and I think some of them have pretty good hair - they've got reason to have some pride in their, um, pride. But I think every once in a while, she wonders what it would be like to be part of an Alpha group. She doesn't care enough to pursue the subjucation required of the lioness to join one of those prides, so she just stays with the Omegas. As she says, "we're weird, but you know, we're all the same kind of weird - it's good."
So, by this point, I had weird images in my brain of lions standing upright, wearing Halloween costumes, and dancing, or just trying to be cool Alphas...whatever the situation called for. I watched the Alpha male surrounded by his lionesses - they had staked out a distinct center advantage spot on the dance floor. Beta groups surrounded the big Alpha group. The Omegas had claimed the two corners. And there were "bachelor" males roaming the perimeter. I could almost smell the zebras downwind at this point.
We're so not different from the animals. We all have our own proving grounds, our own social strata, our own pecking order. Adult humans have the advantage that the animals don't have, that we can choose to abandon the social matrix and create our own - although some cling to this animalistic order into their 40's, but hey, it's a choice. It's a right of passage as adolescents, though, to learn to navigate the ins and outs of the grasslands. As long as my kid isn't taking down any hapless wildebeasts, it's all OK with me.
My friend Carlo has a theory that children are born not so different from animals. We "train" them to recognize dangers, to know right from wrong. We use conditioning, rituals, and occasional swats on the behind until they can make decisions on their own. It's a parent's job to help children overcome instinct and use reason instead. Hmmm...I thought he was crazy when he first brought this up. More and more, I'm seeing the transformation, and seeing that he might have had a point. I'm still not planning on putting out a giant kitty litter box for the girls, I mean they're human - no, really. Despite the sometimes unpleasant smells coming from Katie's gym bag, I'm pretty sure they're 100% homo sapien. They walk upright and everything. Then again, I don't have any boys of my own - maybe I would see more evidence of animal nature in that case. Carlo does, after all, have a boy of his own. A good kid, a sweet kid, but the need to spit, tell crude jokes, and spread his scent all crop up from time to time. It's part of the nature of the beast.
So, I wonder what kind of rituals are still ahead of us. I've seen posturing, circling, swoop and strike conversations, and outright ambushes (but those are usually the girls). Maybe I'll just get her some jungle red nail polish and let her battle it out in a primal away. In the mean time, I think I'll see if I've got any more of those good drugs - maybe it'll help me get through the next five or six years of primal social time.
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